by Janet Cooper
Sarah sought a new challenge. Suddenly, an idea struck her, one she could not believe took so long to surface. Little Turtle had refused to teach her Lenape, but Bowl-Woman might help. Returning to the kitchen, she smiled at the cook. "What is the Lenape word for spoon?"
"Emhan is," the woman said.
Sarah repeated the word then touched the outside of a clay pot.
"Siskewa hos," the cook responded.
She tried to mimic the tones. After the third attempt, she succeeded. Bowl-Woman smiled with delight when Sarah finally succeeded. She gestured to the bread.
"A' pon."
This time she managed to pronounce the word the first time. Enjoying herself, she tapped the table. Before Bowl-Woman responded, Little Turtle crashed through the back door and began speaking Lenape before his feet stopped running.
"Excuse me," the housekeeper said, as she nodded to Sarah and left the room.
Whirling around, Little Turtle faced her. "You're not wanted here." Having said that, he raced out. The slam echoed in the silent room.
Sarah stood riveted to the spot, unsure of what to do. Where had Bowl-Woman gone? Looking through the doorway and down the hall, she saw only the edge of the mirror and the side of the settee. What had caused Bowl-Woman to leave?
Glancing back at the kitchen, Sarah saw dirty plates stacked in a large cast iron kettle, onions lying partially peeled on the table, and several other uncompleted chores. Should she tackle these jobs? What if Bowl-Woman disliked anyone interfering in her house? Sarah surely did not need another enemy at Long Meadow.
Completely useless inside, she strolled from the warm kitchen into the crisp fall day. She pulled her shawl around her shoulders and neck, and stared at the clear blue sky. A sense of loneliness swamped her. With nothing to do and no one to talk to, how would she ever occupy her time? She thought of returning to her own time, and considered walking back to the inn. Wolf's words rang in her ears. She was a liability for Benjamin. Her presence might cost him his life. To prevent harm from coming to him, she must avoid her lifeline home. Hopefully, the soldiers will be caught soon, and my path will open again. Instead of the idea pleasing her, the thought deepened Sarah's depression. Once again she wondered if she was ever satisfied.
Breathing deeply, she ambled to the front of the house. Women worked in the fields just beyond the stone monument marking the grave of Wolf's father. Sarah could offer her help. Then, she recalled White Owl's comment that she was a guest, and the women might feel awkward with her present. Unsure of her position and unwilling to gawk while they worked, she drifted in the direction of the cabins an area she had not visited.
As she walked, she wondered where Little Turtle was. Had he and his grandfather gone to check on the boys that guarded the plantation? Should she seek them out? She liked White Owl, but her latest contact with the boy was not one she sought to repeat. A few other men, she knew, had left early for a hunting trip. Between the Battle of the Brandywine and the following skirmishes, the little game remaining in the area had been killed or frightened away. The braves would be scouting far outside their property for the animals.
Kicking a small stone that lay in her path, she watched as the pebble curved off to the right and caught sight of the first cabin. Surveying the section, she noticed four other roofs. From her vantage point, a couple of the buildings appeared larger than the one in front of her. Since she saw only the chimneys and the peaks, she could not be certain of their sizes.
There seemed no order or plan to the arrangement of the homes, how different from the straight or gently curved roads in her own time. The outside walls were constructed of hand-hewed logs held together with a mortar-type fill. Large pane glass windows graced either side of a stout wooden door. No curtains showed. A pitched roof with cedar shakes topped the one-story building, and a chimney secured each side of the house.
She walked along the sparse leaf-covered tract, for one could hardly call this a road or even a path.
At the next house, a small glass window nestled a few feet above the door, suggesting a room or a sleeping loft. All the houses appeared sturdy and substantial. Unlike the semi-bare, open center area, a bark chip walk led to the front door of each cabin. On either side of the pathway, herbs grew, and the aroma of mint, basil, and thyme filled her nostrils. She took a deep breath and enjoyed the mixed smells.
Drawn to the nearest house, she ran her fingers over the concrete-like material used to join the bark-covered wood. "Ouch!" she exclaimed. She stared at the splinter sticking out from the tip. Placing the end of her finger in her mouth, she rubbed her teeth against the shaving trying to remove the sliver.
As she sucked and nibbled at the tiny fragment, she noticed a cabin tucked behind the other four. While the neighbors' gardens had disturbed earth spots suggesting the women had picked the herbs, the beds before this home flourished, almost to the point of over-growth. Some plants had gone to seed. Sarah wondered why the homemaker had failed to gather and store them for next spring's planting.
Her eyes moved along from the ill-tended yard to the house, Sarah saw a woman sitting hunched over on the outside stoop. Dull, lifeless hair hid her face.
"Hello," Sarah called, drawing near.
The woman did not move.
Maybe, she doesn’t understand English. Damn, if only I knew the Lenape greeting.
Sarah walked closer. "Hello," she tried again, unable to think of any other word.
The woman showed no sign of having heard.
Could she be deaf?
Bending so their faces were at the same level, Sarah sought eye contact with the woman. The long, uncombed hair covered one side of her face and made the task difficult, if not impossible. Sarah twisted her head to the side as she sought without success to peek beneath the thick, black mane. Reluctant to give in without receiving some acknowledgement, Sarah reached out and touched the woman's shoulder. Instantly, the Lenape woman recoiled.
Startled by the abrupt response, Sarah drew her hand back as if scorched by an unseen fire. "I'm sorry."
The woman drew into a tighter ball, binding the bear skin robe tightly around her, and began to shake.
"I'm sorry," Sarah said again. Instinctively, she extended her hand, before pulling back. "I won't hurt thee," Sarah said in a soft, quiet tone.
The Lenape woman made no response, but Sarah saw the quaking lessened. Although her legs began to cramp, Sarah sensed a sudden movement might frighten the Lenape woman. With as little motion as possible, Sarah shifted so that her knees touched the ground and bore her weight. Even from this vantage point, she could not see the woman's features. Sarah had no idea how old the woman was or what expression filled her face. What shall I do?
While she knelt there, Sarah remembered Wolf speaking about the woman who had been raped. Could this be she? Recalling the name, she said softly, "Quick Rabbit."
Still no reaction.
I must find out. Yet, she was reluctant to leave the woman to discover the truth. Someone should be with her. Then, she realized no one on the farm had time to spare, no one except her. Can I help her? I have no training in counseling or psychology. As far as she knew neither did anyone living here. Or anywhere else, she added.
While in grad school, Sarah had taken attended a series of lectures on rape prevention, but the classes had not prepared her for what to do after the fact. Resting her elbows on her upper thighs, Sarah searched her mind for any article or TV show that focused on treatment, but she remembered nothing. If she had her computer, she could go on line. She hated not being about to find professional answers. Well, I'll have to think what might help me and hope it will help her.
Slowly, Sarah rose and dusted off the front of her skirt. Looking at the woman, she thought, I have made all these plans and don't even know if you're Quick Rabbit. But I'm going to find out--right now.
With a determined stride, Sarah headed for the main house. She would find someone and get an answer. As she rounded the corner of the first c
abin, a muffled cry that sounded child-like caught her ears. Stopping, she listened. She heard a thump, then immediately another sniff. Tall grasses sheltered whoever was making the noise. Perhaps she could help. If not, he or she could answer her question about the silent woman.
She walked down a slight grade then eased her way through shoulder-high weeds, sliding the fluffy cat tails aside. While still partially hidden by a willow tree that stood beside a small half-dried creek, Sarah saw the source of the weeping.
Little Turtle whirled around as she stepped into the open area. "E kaliu," he lashed out before rubbing his knuckles between his lips and his nose. A six‑inch knife dangled from the fingers of his other hand.
"Since I don't know what thou said, I'll just ignore thy comment." Sarah spied a large boulder near the edge of the stream; she walked over and sat.
"Go away," the boy said. "I don't want you here."
"Is that what thou said before?"
Instead of responding, he lifted his head and looked away.
"That's a nice knife," she said, trying to encourage an answer.
He shifted his eyes toward the sky.
"My father bought me my first knife when I was eight," Sarah went on as if she were having a normal conversation.
Twisting to stare at her, he said, "I've had one since I was five!" He glanced away.
"Thou is a man. I am only a female." The words nearly choked her. While not a militant feminist, she had never denigrated her sex or her ability. In one short sentence, she had done both. If her words helped break down the wall, she would forgive herself.
"Not only a woman, but a white woman," he scoffed.
She almost rose and marched away, but controlled her initial impulse. Instead, she jammed her hand in her pocket and pulled out her own penknife. She tossed the closed red case in the air, once, twice, three times. Each time, Little Turtle stared at the object a little longer. Gripping it lightly in her right hand, Sarah flicked open the longest blade with her thumbnail and forefinger.
At her action, the boy eased away from the tree and stepped closer. Sarah ignored his movement, bent over to her right, and cut the stem of a cattail. The child inched nearer. With care, Sarah wiped her knife with her apron before pushing the blade back in its metal sheath. Next, she pried open the smallest steel knife and began cleaning her finger nails. From the corner of her eye, she saw the lad advancing, slowly. Again, she cleaned the sharp edge and slid it back into the case.
"What's that?" He slipped his own blade into the leather sheath he wore tied to his waist.
"A penknife." She slowly rolled the case back and forth across her palm.
He focused on the knife but crept within two feet of her. "My father has one he uses to sharpen his quill pen, but his has only one blade."
"Would thou wish to see mine?"
He stared at the knife for a long time. His face showed his desire to examine each portion.
"Here." She picked up his hand and dropped the knife on his open palm.
Turtle squatted down. After pulling out the first blade, he yanked the can opener out. He examined both sides, touched the two pointed ends, and asked, "What is this?"
"A barrel opener," Sarah said, pleased with her quick thought.
"Oh." The awl and the file came next, followed by all the other sections. He held it out and focused totally on the penknife. "May I keep it?"
"No, for that is the only knife I have. I have practiced with this penknife and feel confident with it in my hand," she added.
Little Turtle opened and closed each part again. Finally, he said, "I will trade you mine." He lifted his knife from the sheath.
"Thou has a very fine blade, but I have no place to keep an open knife." Sarah did not wish to destroy the budding relationship, but what the boy wanted was impossible for her to give. She had spent too much time renewing her skill with her penknife to have to start again with a new blade.
Lifting his embroidered, leather sheath, he looked from the beadwork to Sarah. "You may have my holder, too."
Beginning to feel boxed in, she attempted to turn the discussion. "Who gave the knife and sheath to thee?"
"My father gave me the blade. Quick Rabbit made the holder."
"Thou must not trade gifts unless the person who has given thee the present gives thee permission." She hoped the Lenape had a similar tradition.
"Quick Rabbit won't care. She just sits and stares."
Sarah had the answer to her question regarding the identity of the woman sitting in front of the end cabin without even asking. The information would help her when she next visited the solitary woman. "And thy father?" Sarah asked quickly.
Little Turtle scuffed his moccasin against the sparsely covered dry ground.
"My father gave this to me. I must have his permission to give his present away," Sarah said. "If I had another, I would present that one to thee."
"When can you get another one?" Turtle asked.
Since hers had come from her own time, she scarcely knew what to say, so she hedged. "With the war going on, finding another one might take time."
He eyed her seriously.
Wanting to cement their relationship, she said, "If thou would like to borrow my penknife, I will be happy to lend it to thee."
"Can I throw it?" he asked.
"Sure."
Carefully, he pulled out the largest blade then held the handle in his hand. He flipped the knife toward the ground. "Eyaka!" Little Turtle shouted with frustration when the penknife fell on its side. He tried several more times.
"May I help?" Sarah asked, holding out her hand.
After closing the blade, he slapped the case onto her palm. She bit back her flinch, hiding the sting. When she had pulled out the longest steel edge, she balanced the knife in her hand. With an easy twist of her wrist, the steel sliced a hole in the ground.
"How did you do that?" Little Turtle asked.
"Like this." Sarah picked up the knife and repeated her trick.
"Let me try."
As Sarah handed him the knife, she said, "The handle is very heavy. The weight effects the…"
Before she finished, the boy threw the knife. This time the blade ended face up. He grabbed the handle and tried again. The point touched the ground before flipping over.
"May I show thee?"
Reluctantly, he gave her the open knife.
"Hold the handle in thy palm, close thy fingers around the case, and weigh it." She jostled the container in her hand and flexed her fingers. "When thou art comfortable, bend thy wrist and release the knife." The tip of the blade sank into the ground.
"Let me try." Impatiently, he heaved the knife before releasing it. The handle thudded on the ground. He stared at the open blade. "You put a spell on it, so the knife won't work for me." His eyes squinted with anger.
Sarah rose. "No, I didn't. Thou must practice and learn how to hold and release …
He stamped away before she finished.
She considered calling him, but realized now was not the time. After picking up her knife, she wiped the blade on her apron and considered her next move. Since going after Little Turtle would accomplish nothing, she focused her sights on helping Quick Rabbit. As Sarah retraced her steps, she thought about what she should do and how. Failing to come up with any great ideas, she walked toward the Lenape woman's cabin and hoped the right words would come.
Drawing near, she said, "My name is Sarah Stone. I'm visiting Long Meadow." She refrained from mentioning that she was "hiding" from the British soldiers.
Quick Rabbit did not appear to have moved while Sarah was gone. The Lenape woman's body language spoke of rejection, hurt and pain. Sarah ached to place her arms around the pitiful woman, but remembering the earlier reaction to being touched, refrained.
Kneeling close by, Sarah said in a quiet, calm voice, "My father has a tavern, and I help him.” While she spoke, she kept her attention focused on Quick Rabbit. So far, the woman had not shown any indication
that she had heard Sarah speaking. Undeterred, Sarah talked about life at the tavern. When her knees began to ache, she sat on the bark walkway. The palm of her hand landed on a plant. Hastily, she jerked back then saw the plant was only a stalk of grass. Seeing a few others growing on the path, she pulled them while she chatted. Having finished this chore, she saw the garden. "Why not?" she said aloud.
She gathered several large tulip poplar leaves and placed them on the ground. As she picked the seeds off each plant, she laid like with like on her makeshift sheets. She continued her one-sided conversation. Next, Sarah cut the overgrown herbs, preparing to tie them in a bundle. Oh, for a roll of string or twine, she thought. Not having either, she used the stem of the plant. Several tries and three stalks were used before she secured the bunch. Realizing the woman was not focusing on her, but unwilling to stop and leave her alone, Sarah spoke on. When she ran out of stories concerning the inn, she told tales about her own childhood. With Quick Rabbit lost in her own world, Sarah felt safe.
By the time Sarah wrapped the herbs and removed the seeds from the plants, the sun was well past its zenith. Sarah sat back on her heels and looked at Quick Rabbit. "What shall we do now?" She chuckled at her comment, for she remembered a nurse asking her that question when she had broken her leg and couldn't climb out of bed.
* * * *
Wolf threw the reins over the post and bounded up the steps. "Long Knife, wait here. I might need you to find White Owl." The silence of the house greeted him as he strode to the kitchen. Bowl-Woman looked up. The wooden spoon in her hand stilled. "Where is Sarah?"
Twin streaks of red slashed across the cook's walnut colored cheeks. "Iki! TaXkwaho a-kanimi shi."
Fear and misgiving rose like bile in his throat. With difficulty, he controlled his temper and his tone. "You do not know? Did I not ask you to watch over her?"
She nodded. The blush deepened.
"Why didn't you?" He tried to govern his voice, for he knew stubbornness and Sarah walked hand in hand. His apprehension increased, yet he refused to allow the anxiety to master him and block out all rational thought.
